Blood & Baltazar

by Liam Inscoe-Jones

  As they slid through the rows of mills, the swarm of keen workers emerged through the grasses, jeering and laughing and racing towards them. Lylith’s instinct was to retreat but Josiah ignored them. He leant into Lylith’s ear, shouting above the rabble of the crowd. “You knew Mr McCoy a little; but if I'm going to find the killer I'm going to need to work out exactly who he was and how he was linked to Robert Acrimony.”

  “Then where are we going?” Lylith panted as Josiah pulled her further down the path and out towards the fields.

  “We need to find out exactly who your Inspector was. We’re going to the Civilian Index.” He pulled the first button of his coat together, and with his new friend in hand they vanished into the crowd.

  A Notable Omission

  T he name Civilian Index had connotations of a large organisation established on military precision and tedious officialdom. As Lylith hiked up the hill towards it the Index looked like none of these things. It was fastened to the hill in the shape of a large warehouse, once gleaming with steel now just rusted and old. The long rows of grimy windows allowed the tiniest fraction of light to emerge from inside, casting a honey glow across the dark moss of the heath that lay like a woollen carpet before it. Josiah leapt forward by her side, dancing across the grassland and racing towards the ramshackle building awaiting them in silence. As they moved a cold wind bristled through the vegetation; waves of purple and green brushing past Lylith exposed legs. The breeze blew from deep within the blackened sky that loomed beyond the mountains. The clouds swirled in the gale, a deep oily mass threatening to burst across the craggy peaks. The waiting storm was determined to remain.

  Josiah waved an inviting hand from afar and Lylith pounced after him with excitement, keen to be out of the biting cold. “You look happy.” She noted, a slight queasiness still lining her stomach with the sight of a corpse still fresh on her mind.

  “Am I?” He beamed, swinging on his heels.

  “You know you are,” She teased. “What on Earth is there to be happy about?”

  “Are you joking?” Hartt exclaimed. “A drug epidemic here in our little town and then, on top of all of that a murder... A crime within a crime, are you kidding?!”

  “You’re mad, people are dying…”

  “And now we get to bring their killer to justice, oooh the look on his face – I can’t wait!” Lylith smiled at Hartt’s intentions, his eyes alight with wonder and she helped to him to heave at the two great wooden doors. The panels groaned open, revealing behind them a small, cramped room.

  One man sat there, quietly flicking through the pages of a battered old book. He lifted his glasses from his nose and placed them on the table. He looked at them for a moment, running his hand down his face as if attempting to flatten the many creases that were set there. “Can I help you?” He croaked as he stood.

  “Yes…yes you can.” Josiah nodded, leaving Lylith to push the doors back in place. “There’s a couple of men we need to look up.”

  “Dead?” The man asked.

  “One of them is yes, the other paralysed.” He cast a sideways glance. “Is it important?”

  “No. They’re usually dead.” He sighed and pushed his chair back under his desk, before extending a shaking hand towards Josiah Hartt. “Alfred Myrian. Welcome to the Civilian Index.” Josiah snatched his hand and shook it firmly, casting his glance over to the crossword page sprawled across the desk. “Not too busy are you?” He smiled.

  “Oh I’m always busy.” Alfred tutted “Just this, morning I was putting away a young coal runner’s file. Died at the age of 26. Just over a hundred years ago now…”

  Josiah laughed lightly; leaning over to place a hand on the older man’s shoulder. Lylith raised an eyebrow behind him. “I like you Alfred. You’re good…” He rattled. “But this man’s death is slightly fresher I’m afraid, and the clock is ticking, so please…” He indicated his hand towards the door and with a sigh Alfred Myrian reached inside his pockets and began fumbling through a rusty ring of keys.

  Lylith White squeezed a keen hand around Josiah’s arm, whispering in his ear. “The pleasantries are all rather sweet, but I still don’t get it – what is this place? The clue’s in the title right? But why are we here and why did they have to build it all the way a sodding mountainside?”

  “Disabled access!” Albert Myrian exclaimed. “We’re working on it.”

  Josiah turned to her with a smile on his face, thrilled by the building around them and dumping upon his companion years’ worth of research in just a few moments. “This place, Lylith, holds the information about everybody who lives here or ever has; their lives and deaths, every crime they've ever committed, every person they’ve ever loved. A whole valleys past and present…and once, entirely by coincidence, future. Oh the paperwork on that was atrocious.” He shook his head. “Dozens of decades ago some men took inspiration from the Magna Carta, and since then these people just never really stopped. There are places like this in almost every region around the country but nobody is allowed to know they exist because of the riots they'd cause. All that commotion; give away the tiniest piece of information about what we know and all those secrets humans have would just come tumbling down around our ankles. So its kept quiet, tucked away in the craggy heath, ready for times like now. Times when we need to know what linked those two men that would make someone come to a crime scene of the first and plant a message in the ground, then go on to brutally murder someone the following morning. The victims pasts might help get the answers we need to stop him.”

  Lylith ran her tongue over her dry lips, pointing towards the great wooden doors as Albert placed a key inside the lock. “And in there, it's got profiles on everyone?”

  Hartt’s eyes grew wide open. “Everyone.”

  His words were cut short as the cogs in the lock aligned and the two panels split apart. Lylith White and Josiah Hartt stepped nervously forward as a gust of stale air was released from inside and Alfred Myrian disappeared through the doors. The first thing that hit Lylith as she stepped through was the light. The warehouse was like a cavern opening for the first time in centuries, a deep blue luminosity bathing in the darkness. Twelve flickering lights hung from the ceiling by long metal chains, drifting through the thick clouds of cobwebs and dust. The floor was filled with shadows which swam in the twilight, overlapping each other across the concrete grey. Above them great shelves towered, bolted together from tired and creaking metal. Every shelf was lined with a thousand folders, like thin brown dominoes stretching from end to end, rack to rack. They bristled in the faintest breeze seeping through the mould ridden cracks in the fabric of the walls. Josiah Hartt blinked and in an instant broke the tranquillity; snapping his hands together and turning to face the pair before him.

  “Okay then Lylith; he never told you his first name but at least you met Inspector McCoy, it’s a common surname so look for a folder on someone who matches the grouchy old man you knew and despised. I'll try and find Robert Acrimony and work out what links the two.”

  Josiah turned with a smile to Albert Myrian, who stood so awkwardly in the shadows. “Mr Myrian.” He muttered. “I think I'll put you on guard duty. Don’t want you running about too much, your back looks a little crooked to me. Don't worry it comes with age.” Then with a blink of an eye, his long coat swung across the old man’s face and Josiah raced ahead, just a blur chasing through the blinking spotlights.

  Lylith turned to Albert and shrugged her shoulders, swinging round on her heels and sharply bolting to the left. Mr Myrian was left in silence and so he unhooked the pen from his pocket, and walked back towards his crossword.

  Josiah sprinted down the aisle. His hard boots smashed into the concrete, the sound like drumbeat in his ears. The shelves around him blurred into one long, grey streak. He opened his eyes wider than ever. The breeze he created for himself stung his dark black pupils. They flickered across the landscape around him, searching for indication of where to begin his search. Hartt screeched
to a halt as he felt a cold rag brush against his neck. He grabbed the cloth with his hand and ran the yellowed fabric between his fingertips. Etched into the material in dark red stitching was the letter B.

  He dropped the cloth and continued on, slower this time, careful not to miss a second rag. At the end of the first shelf he found another, even more battered with the letter A woven into the cloth. He smiled gently to himself and ran his fingers along the line of files corresponding to the material. The very first folder was relatively fresh; the material not damp and stale like the most the others and the label attached the front not yet peeling at the edges. The nametag read: 'Jamie Aant'. Josiah spent a moment flicking through the pages before slotting it back into place, walking further along the stretch of files.

  It didn't take him long to reach the names which began with and Ac. One by one he placed his finger between the binders and flung the files from the shelf. The brown folders flew open as they were relieved from their place, releasing from inside dozens of white sheets of paper which drifted onto the concrete like feathers around his ankles. He occasionally caught a glimpse of a name as they flew through the air; “Acanont... AcCoyle... Ace...Ackridge...Acodin...” He stopped suddenly as one particular folder swooped through the dust. He snapped his hand out sharply and plucked it from its path. Josiah flipped the binder over in his hand and found on the label at the front the name: 'Robert Acrimony'.

  Lylith White strolled down the concrete path. The shelves loomed over her; great iron slabs like cages cringing in the darkness. She found the rag that was stitched with the letter M and planned to follow its path; however without even realising it she found herself chasing her shadow the opposite direction, tracing the rags further and further away from Mr McCoy and towards the aisle marked by the letter H. She traced the brown files, running her eyes across row upon row of tatty, worn edges. Her finger scored across the lines, the pages flicking against each other, rattling like a snake. She scanned the pieces of dog eared ticker tape, her heart racing as the files dropped quicker and quicker, closer and closer…

  She stopped suddenly and flicked the last file back. In the dark she wanted to make sure she’d seen correctly. She flicked two files apart in her hand; one marked with the name ‘Laura Hartnett’ and the other ‘Steven Harturn.’ Between the two files there was a dark mark; an empty slither in the dust, a noticeable omission in the seemingly extensive collection. There was no ‘Josiah Hartt.’

  Josiah’s shaking fingertips flicked through the pages of the booklet, some documents old and battered with others fresh and hot off the press. His eyes wondered over the pages, devouring every detail of Roberts Acrimony’s life and scrutinising every word for its possible meaning and learning more about the drug addict’s life than perhaps he knew himself.

  As he flipped over the last page he became aware of a whispering from across the hall. He lowered the folder and began walking towards it. Illuminated by the December light from across the mountain side he found two figures standing in reception. The one man stood firm and vigilant, towering over the tiny Albert Myrian squirming by his desk. The newcomer was waving a piece of paper in the air, and pointing into the warehouse. Josiah watched with intrigue for a moment, as despite his frail exterior, Albert asserted himself and managed to keep the excited stranger at bay.

  Finally Hartt made his way towards the great wooden doors, his heavy boots ringing off the concrete. Both heads turned, and in one swoop the taller man dashed past Albert and made his way towards him. As the shadows aligned across his face Josiah could made out at last the sharp figures of Rosin Ash, his face riddled with the usual angst.

  “Mr Hartt...” The Deputy Detector panted as Albert hobbled out of his place and made his way towards them. “Chief Detector Fraun asked me to deliver it in person. He said it was of the utmost importance.” He held out a piece of paper. It was as frail as a leaf, shaking in the breeze with the shivering of his fingertips.

  “Quite the regular postal boy…” Josiah murmured, snatching the cutting from Rosins quaking hands. The sheet was damp and ruffled at the edges, it’s once pristine whiteness now soaked through with dirt. “The message left beneath the Inspector…” Josiah realised.

  At first the marking on the page was hard to make out, but as Hartt held it up to the dim light he could finally make out the number scribbled on the sheet. “Three.” The Deputy Detector read as he had many times when he was trekking his way towards the Index across broken rocks and sheaths of moss. “A number again, just like the one beneath Robert Acrimony… but what do they mean?” He quizzed.

  “I don’t know…” Josiah drawled.

  “You don’t?” Rosin Ash exclaimed, his in initial disappointment soon hidden by a returning smugness to his voice. “But I thought you could see things?”

  “There’s a first time for everything Detector - I can usually work it out.” Josiah nodded. “But this time I was wrong. I was expecting a ransom note, or a threat, or the finger of a relative of somebody quite important – but no.” He turned back to Rosin. “Remind me, with which bodies were they buried?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Ash jeered.

  Josiah Hartt snarled. “I remember, now tell me again.”

  The Deputy Detector sighed. “The number Four was dug up from where Robert Acrimony was found…”

  “And Three beneath Inspector McCoy’s corpse.” Josiah Hartt finished. “So the attacks are counting down, presumably to two more final victims. Who will they be?”

  “Not only that.” Albert intercepted, excited by the new findings and keen to contribute. “A countdown could be based on anything; alphabet, age, blood type…”

  “Quite right.” Hartt smiled. “That old aged noggin of yours still has something to give.”

  “That was rude.” Rosin mumbled.

  “That was a compliment. And Alfred’s right, this isn’t a clue; it’s a threat, something to put us on edge but nothing more, it doesn’t tell us anything. To predict who their next two victims will be we have to know the pattern....” Hartt soon found however the conversation was once again cut short by the pounding of footsteps. Lylith White emerged through the shelves shadows, panting her deepest breaths and waving proudly the folder she’d later found labelled ‘Matthew McCoy’. She elected to keep her enigmatic companions seeping missing file quiet for now. “You found it!” Josiah Hartt beamed.

  “Yes…” Lylith White gasped. “It took me four goes mind.”

  “I wondered what had taken you so long.” Josiah mumbled, holding out a hand. Lylith handed the file over and clutched her hands to her stomach, brimming with exhaustion. The warehouse was longer than she thought.

  Josiah hushed her quiet with a waving hand and turned open the folder with his teeth. He pulled his head back, leaving in his wake a long strip of drool dribbling onto the sheets. He ascertained the information aloud; “Matthew McCoy was a chain engineer before the war. He was happily married with Matilda Bedrock…” he flipped the page. “…then happily married with Sally Williams…” and another, “then happily married to Sylvia Morgan. This one lasted a little longer than the other two though, and by the start of the war he was forty-five. He and Sylvia had a five year old girl, who he left as he was drafted to the battlefield. He was too old to fight so he served as a Military Supervisor; which is a fancy title for someone whose role was checking everyone’s uniforms were in order before they went out to fight and counting back in the ones that survived. After the war was over he was practically a cripple, his heart condition barely allowed for any physical activity at all. He went into trade with the only skills he had left; looking at things and ticking boxes, so he became one of the Inspectors we all love to hate…”

  “Get to the important bit Josiah.” Lylith sighed, turning to the impatient Rosin and Albert and regurgitating what she’d read for herself. “He took a keen interest with politics, and wanted a little influence. Like Josiah said, he spent his money wisely and in his case that meant investing in t
he Liberal Reform. He moonlights as a governmental advisor; it looks as if he brought his way in. It’s not as if he had anything else to spend his money on.”

  Josiah Hartt clicked his fingers in recognition. “Yes, yes, I saw that Lylith. I was trying to build up the tension.” He cleared his throat. “She is right though, these past few years he had nothing. He drove his daughter away: sending her to a university she didn’t want to go to, he was arrested four years ago for putting frogs in her boyfriend’s kitchen and so she and her mother moved away to Clementon, the other side of the country. It was then Matthew took a keen interest in politics, donating vast amounts of his pay check to the Valleys Governmental System, and getting more and more privileges in the process. It seems he spends most his evenings now sorting through very important paperwork at the head offices; he was a high ranking man.”

  “…and he was a prat.” Lylith White shrugged. “We knew that anyway, he spent every morning in our Mills getting us to empty out every single bag of flour for his inspection…” She indicated towards the other file in Josiah’s hand. “But what links him to Robert Acrimony?”

  “Ah, yes.” Josiah smiled, turning to Rosin Ash. “Mr Acrimony, is there any news? Surely he must have woken by now.”

  “No, not yet.” The Deputy Detector replied. “It turns out he was delivered a very high dose of venom from the Repo Glacialis spider. He’ll be out a while longer yet.” The comment raised an eyebrow from Albert Myrian as his intrigue grew.

  “So there’s more than one.” Hartt mused.

  “One what?” Rosin asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Josiah tutted and opened the file. “Now about Robert Acrimony. Pay attention you three; see if you can spot the difference. He worked, as we know, in the city; selling insurance to businesses and profiteers around him and making a shed load off it. Six years ago he launched his own company and applied to become a local representative of the Liberal reform. He was a hit around the suburbs; he married his girlfriend and was voted in two years later. He was a very popular man, and one you wouldn’t think would be found dead on the floor in a crummy little settlement like this one. But you would be wrong. It seems the only thing Mr Acrimony was a failure at was keeping track at his finances. His business was a massive flop, but according to this he was still making huge purchases every day; a varnished leather suitcase, a new car, and new house. He was splashing the cash, but the pool was running dry. Seven months ago he was left bankrupt. Yet we know there was one little expense Robert would keep coming back for…”